


The Great Riddle of the 20th Century

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, M/M, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Spoilers, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-23
Updated: 2007-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-30 07:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10157870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: From childhood to the last battle field, the journey of 'the most evil wizard in 100s and 100s of years'. (ten vignettes based on the prompts given at the 10_themes community at LJ)





	1. Dreams Are Not Allowed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

_**Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter universe and its inhabitants belong to J.K. Rowling and associates._  
 **Warnings for this chapter:** language; antisemitism and xenophobia.  
 **Rating for this chapter:** PG for language

This is unbeta'd (sorry about that). _Do_ feel free to point out any error.

* * *

  
** Dreams Are Not Allowed **   
_(prompt: Envy)_   


**London, Stockwell Orphanage, May 1934**

"Oi, Riddle!"

Tom looks up sharply from his tunic's reflection to catch a pair of pale blue eyes in the small pitted mirror. They drip with malice.

"What do you want?"

"Why're you bothering primping like a girl, you ponce? It's not like they'll take you."

Tom takes a deep breath and _very slowly_ turns around.

_Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six…_

The boy is taller, older and sturdier. Tom isn't really afraid, but all the same doesn't fancy a black eye. Not today.

_…Five. Four. Three. Two. One._

Then again, it's hard to resist.

"Why? Afraid I'm chosen while your sorry arse is left rotting here, Bedham?"

A snort. Not Bedham, Stevens. Then it's Bishop's arm which comes into view as his hand casually comes to rest on the nearby wall, cutting Tom's escape route. Those boys are like hyenas, always attacking in pack. They laugh like hyenas, too.

"Watch your trap, Tommy-boy," Bedham spits. Quite literally at that, and Tom wrinkles his nose, refraining from wiping the spittle from his face. "Ten to one Johnson is chosen. Nobody wants a _freak_ like you."

Tom grits his teeth but doesn't rise to the bait.

Bishop, the 'brain' of the pack, curves his thin lips in disgust. "I would not want _them_ to take me anyway." 

Stevens snorts again and Tom quirks an eyebrow. Now, _that's_ surprising. Everyone's dream here – himself included – is to be chosen; adopted and taken away from this forsaken hole forever. Tom wants parents. He wants a real house and he wants things. Listen to the radio, fly in an aeroplane and go to the cinematograph where pictures _move_ – or so he's been told.

He knows the hyenas' dreams aren't very different, so he can't help asking, "And why is that?"

Third snort from Stevens and Tom wants to hurt him. Badly.

"Because they're Yids," Bishop replies with the tone of someone explaining the obvious to an incurable idiot. The word sounds dirty, defiling, and Tom now feels both nauseous and infuriated. It's a strange mix, rather overwhelming, and he's not sure he'll be able to control himself much longer.

"So what?"

"Jews, you pillock. They eat children. And the lady? She's a frog."

Tom blinks, puzzled. "They do what? The lady's a _what_?"

Bedham slaps him on the cheek. Just hard enough to hurt without leaving a mark. He's good at that.

"Pay attention, you freak! She's French. You don't want to go there and eat snails for the rest of your life, eh?"

Tom briefly thinks that he would gladly eat worms and rats if it meant getting away from here, before anger takes control and his hand rises, fingers like claws, to strike the eyes of the cockroach who dared to hit him.

"Alright, boys, in line now!" The sharp voice of Mrs Cole breaks the fight before it even begins. "We have visitors."

It's miraculously efficient. In a shuffle of footsteps and murmurs, a dozen boys, ranging from five to ten years old, are soon standing in a straight line, hands behind their back; a study of discipline and good behaviour.

"Say hello to Mr and Mrs Blumenthal, children," the matron orders.

"Hello Mr and Mrs Blumenthal," the angelic choir sing-song.

Tom steals a glance at the couple who have followed Mrs Cole into the dormitory. The man is tall and dark, with vivid brown eyes. Clad in a dark grey suit, he looks stern and severe. The woman is svelte, with soft, delicate features and auburn hair, stylishly done. Her eyes are a deep forest green. _Just like mine_ , Tom thinks. _She could pass for my mother_. And his heart is suddenly beating stronger.

She steps further in while her husband stays by the entrance, and looks at each of them in turn. For the first time during one of those 'visits', Tom doesn't feel like he's some merchandise on display, ready to be handed from one owner to another. There is softness in her eyes and a little smile on her face. She looks almost… hopeful.

She pauses before Johnson, and Tom's heart sinks. The boy is adorable, with curly brown hair framing an innocent face, and the clearest amber eyes. He looks like an angel. A _five-year-old_ angel. It's always easier for the younger ones. Tom rather likes him, only not at the moment. 

She exchanges a few whispering words with the resident saint. Tom wants to scream, but of course he doesn't, only staring at her so intently that she interrupts her conversation and turns to him. Their eyes meet, and _something_ happens.

She walks to him and smiles, so sweetly he feels overwhelmed by a strange, unknown warmth and can't help smiling back.

"What is your name, young man?" she finally asks with the faintest foreign accent.

He's beaming now. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, ma'am."

She leans towards him and takes his hand. His heart skips a beat; she didn't touch Johnson. "Nice to meet you, Tom. I'm Diane. How old are you?" God, she smells good.

"I'm seven, ma'am, will turn eight in December."

"Well, Tom…" She pauses. Tom's heart is about to explode from a volatile combination of hope, anticipation and anxiety, and his ribcage hurts. She has that sweet little smile again. "What would you say—"

"Darling, a word?" Tom gives a start then looks up into unfathomable brown eyes; his throat tightens.

"Certainly," the woman – Diane – replies before following her husband to the entrance where Mrs Cole seems to wait for them.

The three of them start a whispered but animated talk. Tom desperately tries to hear, but only catches snatches of the conversation – '..table..', '…cious…', '…fficult…', '…emper…'. The woman's expression turns pleading, but the man's remains unmoved. He finally shakes his head and Tom reads a clear 'no' on his lips. Mrs Cole clears her throat.

"Alan Johnson, will you please come with us?"

And just like that, it's over.

Tom stares at them as they disappear through the doorway. The woman casts a last look at him, and he thinks he sees longing in her eyes. But then she's gone, leaving him frozen.

Bedham leans to him and whispers, "See, freak? Told you. Nobody wants you, not even _them_."

Eyes burning with unshed tears, Tom hisses under his breath. All he knows is that _Johnson_ has left for a life of radios, aeroplanes, cinematograph and sweet, sweet smiles while _he_ is still here. That he's stuck with Bedham, who is smirking at him, and that he hates him, hates him, **hates** him.

In the evening, Bedham gets sick. A nasty illness that has him screaming in pain and vomiting blood for a whole week after.

Tom doesn't know how, but he knows he made him. He _felt_ it. And it felt good.


	2. He's a Wizard

_**Disclaimer** : The Harry Potter universe and its inhabitants belong to J.K. Rowling and associates._  
 **Warnings for this chapter:** none.   
**Rating for this chapter:** G

This is unbeta'd (sorry about that). Do feel free to point out any error.

* * *

  
**He's a Wizard**   
_prompt: Excitement_   


**Hogwarts, Great Hall, September 1938**

"Potter, Harold."

The messy haired boy grins to his friends and strides resolutely towards the funny hat. Tom smirks inwardly; the boy's hands are trembling.

It takes three heartbeats for the Hat to yell 'GRYFFINDOR!' in that disturbingly cheerful voice. The boy almost runs to the Gryffindor table where an older but just as loud version of him apparently named 'Charlus', and apparently a cousin, and with very apparent messy hair too, greets him with many unnecessary movements of the arms and hands.

Tom wishes from the bottom of his heart he won't end up in messy hair noisy Gryffindor. Assuming he's understood the details correctly, he'd like Ravenclaw.

Yet another name is called, in that _other_ disturbingly cheerful voice.

"Prewett, Ignatius."

Ah. The red-hair. This one oozes mischief. Smells like a prankster, and Tom _hates_ pranksters. 

_Pitiful blusterers._

So far, this has been a flurry of names, faces and various demeanours. He has carefully memorised them, cataloguing and filing for future reference, but now Tom's attention drifts and he's fidgeting. This Sorting affair has been lasting far too long already, and he hardly can contain his impatience. He wants to know where he belongs. He wants _his_ name to be called. Now.

For the umpteenth time, he takes in his surroundings in one long circular glance. The house banners, the tables, the candles, the students, the teachers, the ghosts… too new, too surreal, too good to be worthy of interest, he decides. And so, for the first time, he looks upwards and sees the enchanted ceiling.

A lone stretched cloud lazily floats to obfuscate the moon, dark grey against a starry black sky. Tom's eyes widen; he understands.

This is far better than radio, far better than aeroplanes, far better than cinematograph. This _is_ magic, this is real, and he's a part of it. He's a wizard.

He wears strange black robes and a pointy hat. He has a wand made of holly and phoenix feather that can cast green sparkles and will soon do much more. He belongs to a race of superior individuals. By birth alone, he is better than _them_. His blood sings to him.

Nose in the air, eyes opened in awe, he's so engrossed in his contemplation that he barely registers the long-awaited words resounding through the Great Hall, and Professor Dumbledore has to call him a second time.

"Riddle, Tom!"

Tom's attention snaps back. He briefly meets the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes but much as he's come to utterly dislike it, he doesn't care at the moment. With a bounce in his steps, he trots to the stool and sits, casting one more look at the Great Hall and its occupants.

_This is home_ , he thinks, _and I will fit in here. I will learn, and I will make **friends**. I'll be powerful and knowledgeable and respected. One day – soon – I'll do better than paint skies on ceilings. I'll paint on the very sky, and I'll brand it as mine._

And then Dumbledore puts the Hat on his head, covering the bright smile on his lips and the hope in his eyes.


	3. Father, May I Have Two Words With You?

_**Disclaimer** : The Harry Potter universe and its inhabitants belong to J.K. Rowling and associates._  
 **Warnings for this chapter:** language, a tiny bit of violence, minor (expected) characters death, major identity crisis, temper tantrum of Dark Lord-esque proportion.   
**Rating for this chapter:** PG13

This is unbeta'd (sorry about that). Do feel free to point out any error.

* * *

  
**Father, May I Have Two Words With You?**   
_prompt: Hate_   


_"I thought you was that Muggle,"_ Morfin Gaunt whispers.

The air inside the house is stale and muggy, but Tom feels suddenly very cold. He doesn't like the sound of that. He doesn't like it _at all_.

_"What Muggle?"_ he asks sharply.

_"That Muggle what lives in the big house over the way. You look right like him. Riddle."_

Time freezes, as does a part of Tom's mind, the one that's closest to his soul. There, something clicks, then something else shatters, leaving a void that begs to be filled. Tom's not sure he's quite here anymore. He feels oddly detached and even find it mildly amusing that the destruction of his illusions should sound like the voice of this degenerate, monkey-like, pathetic excuse for a wizard who, unfortunately, happens to be his uncle.

His only _wizarding_ family alive.

_"He come back, see,"_ Morfin says, and the other part of Tom's mind – the one that's in the room with Morfin and listens – can't help thinking that the combination of Parseltongue and a drunken slur really has a strange sound to it. Not mentioning that it doesn't make much sense.

_"Riddle came back?"_ he asks, for confirmation.

He feels nauseous speaking his own name – the name of his Muggle father – and he wants to scream that it's not true, not true, not true. He's the heir of Salazar Slytherin; he is descended from the great and glorious line of Peverell; he's a Parselmouth, highly skilled in the Dark Arts at the tender age of sixteen; he has knowledge, he has power, he has respect. He is a pure-blood, he has to be. There's no fucking way in hell he's related to _them_ by the slightest drop of blood.

_"… Where's Slytherin Locket?"_ Morfin asks, getting a little enraged now. _How would I know?_ Tom silently replies, although he does notice the words which seem remotely important. Food for research. That thought makes him want to laugh.

Laugh until he can't breath anymore, until his lungs collapse, until his throat is torn. All that precious time _wasted_ vainly searching for traces of his paternal family in the wizarding records. No wonder his father never was a prefect, attended Hogwarts or played Quidditch! And there he was, clinging to the hope the man might have gone to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, while all this time his father was right here, in England, in a Muggle neighbourhood, in a Muggle house, living his petty Muggle life, all because he is a sodding _Muggle_.

_It's not fair_ , he thinks. And that voice in his head sounds suspiciously like his seven-year-old self's.

So he smothers it; now is not the time for self-pity. Desire for revenge set aside, he has a situation to handle. If his… dubious ancestry ever were to be discovered, he could lose much. He's not certain it would completely destroy the trust and admiration of his pure-blood circle of friends, but he's definitely not going to try and see. He is _not_ throwing away years of efforts and a glorious future because his mother was a slut with questionable tastes.

Something must be done. His inbred uncle and the Muggles must be silenced and this poisonous little bit of information hidden, buried, forgotten. The solution comes to him naturally: the Memory Charm. He's become rather good at it since the Walburga Black incident. Besides, he couldn't care less if the Muggles lose some sanity in the process. As for Gaunt? There's nothing left to lose, really. 

Morfin babbles now. _"It's over, innit … it's over …"_

_Indeed_ , Tom thinks.

A slight motion of the wrist, and his wand is at the ready – a nifty little move he mastered in second year. A little showy, but he was very proud of it at twelve. In his drunken state, Morfin shows no signs of reaction.

" _Stupefy_."

***

Tom has decided to visit the Muggles first and take care of Gaunt later. He may have to refine his plan, and there is something the wizard possesses that is rightfully his and that he'll have to collect, only not right now.

Not mentioning the fact that he'll also have to return Gaunt's wand to its owner… can't risk having an _Obliviate_ traced to his own while he's not at Hogwarts. The 'I was just training for DADA, Professor Merrythought' excuse wouldn't work then, would it?

It is getting late and the sky is darkening, turning into a deep royal blue, without a single cloud or a trace of wind. As he climbs up the hill where Riddle House is located, Tom can't help feeling as though the whole little town is in a bubble of peace. Outside, the Muggles kill each others by millions, animals that they are, and their petty if vicious war has gone so far as contaminating the wizarding world, thanks to the so-called Dark Lord Grindelwald and his lot. But here, all is still, silent and… eerily undisturbed. As though it was an entirely different world. _Maybe it is_ , Tom considers.

He still feels strangely absent, with that great hollowness within, that void. He wants – needs – to fill it, but he doesn’t know how. _Now is not the time_ , he thinks again, shrugging the discomfort away as he reaches his destination. The house is impressive, larger than expected, almost a mansion; they're wealthy. A charming smile now on his face, he grabs the antique door's knocker.

***

Things are not going as expected. At all.

He came here to quickly solve a problem and now is trapped in a conversation he never intended to have. He blames his lack of control on the weirdness of the day, the upsetting resemblance he bears to the younger Muggle – it has been like landing face to face with an older version of himself; truly disturbing – and the sickening kindness of the woman, his grandmother.

Oh, she _is_ a stuck-up bitch, but, for some reason, she seems intent on treating him nicely.

And why on earth did he have to mention Merope Gaunt and reveal _who_ he is? He isn't here to find answers, for Merlin's sake! He's here to _avoid_ them.

The men would have gladly kicked him out as soon as his identity was revealed, he's sure of that. _Try to_ , that is, and things would be over by now. But _she_ had to silence them, look at him with those misty green eyes, and ask him questions. And he can't help but answer – with lies, but answer nonetheless.

Honestly! Now that he thinks of it, there was so many better ways he could have handled the situation. Starting with a Disillusionment Charm and a little Alohomora.

The reason for this fiasco? His own weakness, the source of which is currently sitting in front of him, eyeing him with hardly contained hostility. High time to do something about that. _Let's put all this behind once and for all_.

He stands up abruptly, interrupting her. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he says, inwardly cursing his own politeness, "but I think it's time for me to leave. You were about to have dinner—"

She stands up in turn, all smile, sweetness and elegance. "You will come back and visit us, won't you, dear?"

He sighs. "I don't think so."

He reaches for Gaunt's wand and points him towards his father. It's dirty and sticky and repulsive, but it will have to do. _Memory Charm first, the three of them, then a little bit of Legilimens. It may even prove to be an interesting experiment._

" _Obl_ —"

His father springs to his feet, startling him.

"I knew it!" he shouts, voice laced with contempt and disgust, face distorted, livid and not handsome at all anymore. "You filthy little snake! You're like her, aren't you? One of them! Just like your whore of a mother. A disgrace to my line, a despicable unnatural _freak_!"

Tom's eyes widen. In a fraction of second, the void inside him is no more, filled by a wave of pure hatred that shines and burns like a million suns. The words form on his lips of their own accord, lovely and powerful.

" _Avada Kedavra_."

The emerald light has never shone so beautifully. The Muggle is dead before touching the floor; Tom turns to face the older one. _Father of my father_.

" _Avada Kedavra_."

He rides his hate, wild with the intensity of the curse. It's pleasure on his nerves, heat in his veins, clarity in his mind.

" _Avada Kedavra_."

With a soft sigh, she falls in turn, and only then the wave recedes.

It's over.

He stands there a moment, staring at the corpses. Panting slightly, head tilted to the side, a cute little smile on his lips, he looks a bit surprised, but happy.

He's never killed anyone before – animals, yes, for practice, and Myrtle was only a regrettable accident; a terminal case of wrong place, wrong moment, really. Now, he's just taken three lives, and he knows he should feel guilty, or at least sorry.

He _should_. But he doesn't. He feels free.

 

**Post-mortem A/N** : The dialogue bits at the beginning are directly lifted from chapter 17 of HBP. I also had a major timeline problem, as GoF and HBP contradict each other regarding the date of the Riddle murders event. GoF places it in 1944 and HBP in 1943 (I could explain how, but I'm not here to bore you with nitpicky canon details).


	4. Event Horizon

_**Disclaimer** : The Harry Potter universe and its inhabitants belong to J.K. Rowling and associates._  
 **Warnings for this chapter:** mild slash; dubious origin of a certain appellation; microscopic trace of D/s.   
**Rating for this chapter:** R

This is unbeta'd (sorry about that). Do feel free to point out any error.

* * *

  
**Event Horizon**   
_prompt: greed_   


_'Event horizon' (astrophysics): The outer edge of a black hole. Point of no return beyond which nothing can escape the black hole's attraction, not even light, and no knowledge of events can ever be passed to our universe._

**Hogwarts, undisclosed location, October 1943**

"So, tell me. What is this thing so secretly special that you need to secretly plan it in that secret lair of yours, Riddle?"

Tom winces. "Don't call me that."

His head pillowed on Tom's chest, Roldan Lestrange looks up from his comfortable position and grins, revealing perfect white teeth. It's the smile of a predator, and Tom rather likes it.

"Alright… _Voldemort_ … Vol-de-mort. It's sounds strange, you know. Unusual."

"I don't do ordinary," Tom replies with a lopsided smile.

Roldan chuckles. "Of course you don't. But still… It sounds… French."

"You would know, _Lestrange_."

They fall silent, Tom drawing little circles on Roldan's hard chest with the tip of a finger. He enjoys the touch. Smooth and firm. Reliable.

"So?" Roldan asks after a while.

Tom quirks an eyebrow inquiringly.

"You didn't answer my question. What's the Big Project?"

Tom represses a sigh. He's known it would come to this ever since he literally _extracted_ the answers from Slughorn (Merlin! This almost required forceps!), but the anticipation he's felt since then is now tainted with hesitation. He needs a few more moments to stifle it.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," he replies matter-of-factly.

Roldan looks up again, laughing. When the laughter slowly dies and unease replaces mirth, Tom doesn't know whether it's amusement or regret that he feels.

"You would, wouldn't you?"

"Would I?" Tom asks, a tad too tightly.

"I don't know. You tell me."

Tom heaves a breath. _Time to stop dancing_. He kisses Roldan lightly on the lips – the phantom of a kiss, really – then smiles.

"No, I wouldn't. You know that. Besides…" He gently pushes him away and gets up gracefully from the improvised bed of thick blankets and pillows. "…I will need your help. So…"

The stones are cold under his bare feet but very dry, as though the place itself is mummified. He walks to the ebony desk that stands against the opposite wall. It's a personal addition. A way to make the Chamber his. "…I _will_ tell you…"

Even though he can't see it, he can _feel_ Roldan's stare roaming over his naked body, downwards from back to butt to legs then upwards, slow and appreciative. It makes his skin tingle and his lips curve in a sly smile.

He hisses a brief command to the minuscule snake carved around the lock of the desk's upper drawer, which opens with a faint _click_ , then picks up a small thin book bound in black leather. A plain and very Muggle diary he purchased in London this summer. 

"I would have told you anyway," he lies, before turning around to face Roldan. "This will be our secret. You won't tell anyone."

It's cold in the Chamber, but the lust in Roldan's brown eyes is intense enough to warm him and send blood directly to his groin.

"Come hither."

Roldan stands up slowly, with all the elegance of a Slytherin pure-blood, and strolls towards him. _He moves like a tiger_ , Tom thinks. _A dangerous one, at that_. His cock hardens at the sight, but he stops him with a firm gesture before they can touch, keeping him at arm's length.

"This," he announces, holding up the diary, "is what will soon stand between me and any possible forms of destruction."

Roldan inspects the little book for a while then arches an eyebrow. "This? A bunch of leaves of Muggle origin? I know you're a powerful wizard, Tom, but—"

Tom raises his chin ever so slightly; Roldan's eyebrows now _both_ rise in an unusual display of surprise and… concern? He covers the space that separates them, and Tom feels his arms closing around his waist and his lips brushing against his ear.

"Don't do it," Roldan whispers. "This is… This could destroy you."

Tom shivers. Unconsciously, his own arms rise to rest on Roldan's shoulders. The contact of his body is warm, solid, comfortable and feels oddly safe. For a suspended second, he's tempted to give in and renounce, but—

"No. This will make me stronger. I've told you, Roldan, I can't let death control me, and I won't."

A light trail of butterfly kisses down his throat, sharp teeth tugging at a nipple. The diary falls on the rough stone floor of the Chamber of Secrets, neglected but not forgotten.

"You don't have to fear death," Roldan murmurs against the sensitive skin of his belly, sending tiny waves of pleasure downwards. "We will follow you, we will protect you, we believe in you…"

Tom's hand moves to Roldan's neck, his fingers plunging in the thick, soft brown curls. He looks down, capturing his gaze, and smile at what he reads in it and beyond. Love, lust and adamant loyalty. 

"My Knights of Walpurgis…" he says lovingly.

Roldan's smiles back. "Your Knights of Walpurgis…"

Tom notices that he gently fondles himself with his right hand, the left one tightly clasped on Tom's thigh. It's a lovely sight, and when Roldan's tongue slowly circle his navel before tracing down the fine line of dark hair in an excruciatingly slow motion, he has to call on more than mere self-control to be able to speak. 

"You'll help me … vanquish death … piece by piece … consume it … devour it … my Death Eaters."

"Your Death Eaters," Roldan echoes once more, before closing his mouth around Tom's eager cock.

Tom hisses, automatically shifting to Parseltongue at the hot and soft sensation. This is good, incredibly so. But he knows things that are even better.

***

A few nights later, on Halloween, Tom Marvolo Riddle emerges from Salazar Slytherin's private study into the main chamber, holding a small black book that now contains a very precious part of him, even though its pages are blank.

He's naked, and very pale. Rivulets of blood still run from his nose, eyes, ears and mouth, drawing an intricate dark red pattern on his chest, his groin and his legs. Those have been intense hours, made of pain, anguish and loss, but it was worth it. 

Roldan is here, waiting for him. He has kept watch all night, as planned. 

He stares at him and Tom calmly returns the stare, appraising the subtle changes in the young man's bearing. The way his hands are poised before him as though ready to rise for protection; the expression on his face, too blank, too impassive, too _Slytherin_ ; the sparkle in his eyes that vanishes as they widen in both realisation and disbelief.

There's no more love there and very little lust. Roldan was quick to understand; Tom is proud of him.

Wandlessly – and wordlessly – he banishes the Diary to the safety of the ebony desk's drawer then walks to Roldan, quickly and steadily, until they touch.

Chest against chest, bare skin against silk and cotton, cold fingers grazing warm cheekbones. His blood smears the white shirt and the black robes, an ample red comma staining the prefect badge and the Slytherin crest. The beats of Roldan's heart feel strong and fast through his ribcage. Fear. He can't help smiling slightly. Fear is good.

But not enough. Never enough.

One short word hissed, and Roldan is naked as well. He grabs him by the hair in one swift motion and spins him around.

"Bend for me, Roldan," Voldemort quietly demands.

Roldan whispers, "Yes, my Lord," then complies.


End file.
